


Metamorphosis

by sparrow2000



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 12:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15796425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: The Devon coven consents to channel power so Giles can confront Willow.





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: None  
> Type: Gen  
> Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al, own everything. I own nothing.  
> Comments and feedback are cuddled and called George  
> Beta extraordinaire: thismaz  
> Written for 2018 summer_of_giles

Darkness was rising in the west. The coven read the signs in the bones of the earth and the portents in the cycles of the stars. Giles paced barefoot along the long, narrow path between the weeping willows knowing he wouldn’t leave the coven unchanged. Understanding that his duty, his heritage, left no room for doubt or delay.

Fear was present in abundance, but with fear came humility and surrender to powers far greater than his own. That’s what he told himself. But, in the dark he knew that duty and temptation were two sides of the same coin. He couldn’t not do this, but the idea of being the conduit whispered to a long-buried vanity and ego that was almost too much to bear. Almost.

Four women were waiting at the end of the willow walk. The first was really a girl, a teenager, with red hair and skin that looked as if it had never seen the sun. She was the Daughter even though her mother was dead before she left the womb.

The second was a woman in her prime, her black hair not yet touched by grey, her body soft and lush and unashamed. She was the Mother, even though she had never given birth.

The third was old in a way that wasn’t. Her grey hair was braided and hung to her waist, and the wrinkles on her skin spoke of the gentle experience of a life embraced. She was the Grandmother and the knowledge of her years sat lightly on her shoulders.

The fourth was the Matriarch. Her hair was silver and her eyes were bright, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners spoke of eons of merriment and grief.

They stood, all four, in perfect symmetry, echoing the cardinal points of a compass. The Matriarch raised her hands, spreading them wide in welcome and the space between them seemed to pulse with every intake of her breath. “Welcome, Rupert Giles,” she said.

Giles paused at the edge of the circle, bowing his head respectfully. He didn’t speak.

“Welcome again,” the Matriarch said. “You have come seeking help, seeking knowledge and wisdom. If you are willing, step into our circle and open your heart and your mind to us.”

Giles raised his head and fought down the temptation to flee back down the narrow path, although there was a part of him that wondered if the path at his back even existed except in the corners of his memory and if the weeping willows were an irony that spoke to the tangle of thoughts in his own churning mind. He stepped into the circle, magic dancing through the hair on his arms and on the back of his neck as he crossed the threshold. When he reached the central point, the Daughter was at his back, the Grandmother on his right, the Mother on his left and the Matriarch at the northern point was the anchor for them all.

“You are a brave man, Rupert Giles,” the Grandmother said.

“And a foolish one,” countered the Mother.

The Matriarch smiled. “Such is the nature of men, that they are both.”

“And yet they come to us, to women, for succour.” The Daughter’s voice was low and soft at his back, and the urge to turn and make his case, make his excuses, was almost overwhelming, but the gaze of the Matriarch held him still and he stood compliant, awaiting their judgement.

“As it should be,” the Matriarch said and her voice was implacable, although he was sure that she only spoke in his head. “In their moment of need, all men must recognize the power of the Goddess. Of the earth that bore them, that nursed them and watched them flourish and find their own path. In the end, that path must lead back to the earth from whence they came.” She paused, her gaze steady, holding his own, as if she was taking his measure. “You come in great need, Rupert Giles. We have felt the rise of power in the new world and know that it must be met with equal and opposite force. So I ask you, do you have the will to be our vessel?”

Giles bowed his head again. “If it pleases you, my lady.”

“That is not an answer,” the Daughter said. “Do you have the courage to be our vessel?”

“If you believe that I am worthy, my lady,” he replied.

“That is not an answer,” the Mother said. “Do you have the humility to be our vessel?”

“If you believe so, it must be so, my lady,” he replied.

“That is not an answer,” the Grandmother said. “Do you have the compassion to be our vessel?”

“If you trust in me, I trust in your judgement, my lady,” he replied.

“Are you afraid, Rupert Giles?” the Matriarch asked.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then you have the will and the courage, the humility and the compassion to serve this purpose. Kneel, Rupert Giles.”

Giles sank to his knees, his hands resting lightly on his thighs. The Matriarch was impossibly tall above him. She held out her hands and was joined with the other three to close the circle, the power thrumming in the air as he knelt in supplication at their feet.

“We call on the grace of the Goddess. We call on the power of her name. Gaia, hear us and heed us. Goddess grant us your blessing and your favour. Open yourself to your children and bring your lost one home.”

The air was thick with summer heat and soft and fresh as rain in springtime. Giles could smell the scent of autumn bonfires and the bite of early frost in childhood winters. The soil was damp under his knees and the earthy scent of loam and decaying leaves sang in harmony with the heavy perfume of jasmine, magnolia and rose hanging in a gentle breeze. 

The world spun and the coven was a neverland. He could taste the tang of the ocean and hear the worms burrowing in the dirt. His fingers dug into the soil, grounding him, connecting him to the earth, to the Goddess and the stars wheeled overhead, the planets dancing to the rhythm of the universe.

His life flew backwards, memories of completeness, of enjoining, of head and heart and spirit and hand. Then further back to the siren song of darkness, of narcissism and ego and the nihilistic exhilaration of power embraced in greed and vanity and pride.

And there, calling to him, was a dark voice, whispering in his head, oozing into every cell and sinew, sweet and sinful as chocolate and riddled with anger and pain. He raised his head and the earth stilled on its axis. Willow was calling him. Mocking him. Loving him. Consuming him. Taking his heart and soul and mind and making him anew. Making him in her image and her in his.

The stars screamed, and Drusilla clung to Miss Edith. Jenny Calendar shifted in an uneasy grave and Angelus danced an Irish jig in his dreams.

Time stopped and Giles breathed. The air was fresh and the night was quiet and the stars and the planets looked down, indifferent to the fate of one insignificant man. He pushed down into the earth with all his strength and rose to his feet, soil clinging to his fingers and between his toes.

The women stood serene, their faces calm after the force of the storm and he bowed to each in turn. Then he stepped out of the circle and the scent of strawberries and the bone chill damp of the ocean was heavy in the air.

Giles turned and ran, following his heart and his head and his Calling. And the compass pointing west.


End file.
